Prologue
The wooden wheels of the cart had worn long grooves in the mud, such that its puller had to stop occasionally and clear the buildup from the ruts. At long last, however, after days or weeks of travelling a winding and sometimes barely-walkable path through the woods that buffered the settlement, the traveler had reached the walls of the city of Varzoun. He beheld the sight with some relief and raised his arm to his brow to wipe away the warm sweat that had amassed even in the cool midwinter air.
The gate was iron but the fence itself was pillars of timber: flimsy and more of a token barrier than a proper military defense. The visitor beheld, strung along the ramparts above on twine, a string of little dolls made of straw and rags, which gave an unwelcoming, forbidding and eerie appearance to the place under gray, drizzling clouds. He wiped some errant muck from his tattered travelling cloak.
“Halt,” the guardsman barked, said the guardsman, taking notice of the traveler and his cart. “Who goes there? State your business.”
“Radoniak Ullo Rodasimius,” the man said with a performative bow. “Known to friends, supporters and well-wishers of all kinds as Radonus. A humble traveler, weary from the road, wishing to stay a while and avail himself of any hospitality offered.”
“Radoniak Ullo Rodasimius,” the guardsman repeated sternly, stiffly and formally, making it abundantly clear that he considered himself no kind of friend or supporter of this newcomer. “Have you been travelling so long and far that you are unaware that there is a plague upon this land? We are taking no visitors at this time, begone with you.”
“Ah,” Radonus nodded in acknowledgment, “Grim times require a grim man. You must be thriving. Perhaps if I had an audience with your lord, I could perhaps persuade him of my value. I have much to offer. I sing songs, I shoe horses, I cook a fine stew, I speak seven languages.”
“The King of Varzoun,” the guardsman stressed, “Has decreed that we will take no travelers.”
“Sir, if I may beg your clemency,” Radonus placed his hands behind his back and stretched, “I have been travelling a fortnight, and as you see I have no horse to pull my belongings, just my old bones. I’m not as young as I look, and I don’t look young. We have been blessed with a midwinter thaw, but if you send me away in this wet and breath-seeingly-cold weather, I may not make it to the next port. I know not where even I might venture to find it!”
The appearance of Radonus attested to this. His hair, long, stringy, and brown flecked with gray, was pulled back, revealing a craggy, perhaps prematurely aged face with bushy brows and a long, bumpy nose over wizardlike brown whiskers. His long, lean body probably stood 6’2 upright but was hunched and stooped from the physical exertion of hauling his cart down the long road through the woods – it was several days’ hike from the nearest town unladen by a card such as the one Radonus pulled. He spoke with a raspy and wisened voice that was nevertheless impish and excitable – and irritating to this particular sentinel.
“Please consider my plight and the beautiful city of Varzoun will be made ever so much more glorious for it,” the traveler pressed.
“No visitors, no travelers, no exceptions,” the guardsman repeated, impatience in his baritone voice.
“And what a town it must be, completely uninfected by outside culture or thought,” Radonus quipped bitterly under his breath. Clearing his throat, he resumed his posture. “You do a credit to your King, sir… what do I call you?”
The guardsman rolled his eyes and sighed, searching the heavens above or a moment for guidance on whether he should deign to answer.
“Laonog,” he answered flatly. “Just Laonag to you.”
“Laonog, my new friend,” Radonus said, his smirk widening as he sidled up to the guard once more, “I ask you, what of kindness, what of hospitality? Has it been bled so thoroughly from the city of Varzoun? Are the people so cold, so indifferent, that they would turn an old man, a weary and beleaguered old fellow such as myself, away, into the wind and cold, to face death and other uncertain fates in the wilderness? And for what? If that is how we live, then what do we live for? If not each other, if not for charity and the spirit of… of togetherness!…? Eh? I beg you please, be an exemplar, a beacon in the night of this world. Do what in your heart what you know is right.”
Laonog narrowed his eyes at the irritant known as Radonus and sneered. “My kindness,” he sneered, “My heart… is with my people, the people of Varzoun, the people with whose protection I have been tasked. No visitors. No travelers. No exceptions.”
Radonus sighed dejectedly and shook his head as he began to slink away. “We could be so good for each other,” he said wearily, “Varzoun and I. It would be a shame I they never knew what I had to offer, what wonders I would share from my travels.
“Thankfully,” he said, his tone changing to a more optimistic one as he reached into a concealed pouch within his cloak, “They shall not want for that.” He produced in his hand a rolled and sealed parchment and pressed it toward Laonog’s grip. The soldier reluctantly took it.
“And what do you think you’re doing with this?” Laonog asked.
“If you are blessed with the ability to read, it should be clear.”
Laonog chose not to dignify his guest with an answer.
Radonus smiled toothily, “That, my good sir, is a voucher of free travel, signed by my former overlord Dariel of the Black Lands. You’ve heard of King Dariel the First, have you not?”
“We bow to none but our King,” Laonog affirmed proudly, “King Aovan II of Varzoun. None outside his auspice may command us.”
“Be that as it may, be that as it may,” Radonus shrugged, “No doubt even a guardsman such as yourself – whether through whispers at the gate or at functions you may have attended in an official capacity – might be able to conceive of some of the broader points of diplomacy…”
The words seemed to fall on inflexible ears.
Radonus produced a small, smooth coin from seemingly nowhere and rolled it along his knuckles one-handedly as he continued. “Standing agreements between Kingdoms, official or implied. Political relationships. Statecraft. Goodwill, even. How might it look to an ally state that you turned away a favored export – that being myself – so callously and with prejudice? It begins with me and where does it end? War, bloodshed… these walls don’t look so tough to climb for a Blacklander Infantryman. What a terrible thing to die over. And all of that grim fate could be avoided without a word if you just… open the gate merely once in your storied career.”
Laonog stared down at the man, who tossed his coin in the air and caught it behind his back, then produced a larger coin by sleight of hand.
“You may speak with a supervisor if you’re unsure of my meaning.”
Laonog scowled. A long pregnant pause of silence passed between the two men. “Wait here.”
The guard moved to enter the city. Along the way he muttered something to a comrade-in-arms, no doubt inducing him to watch that shady outlander for a moment. He disappeared into a small hut, then returned a moment later.
The gate opened to reveal the main thoroughfare of Varzoun, busy with villagers, merchants selling eggs, grain, textiles and the like.
“Radoniak Ullo Rodasimius,” the guardsman announced loudly and with a great deal of reluctance as he stood aside, “Varzoun welcomes you.”
“And I it,” Radonus said with a grin. He placed the larger coin into Laonog’s hand as he passed “Keep this. It might be worth something someday.”
He began to pull his cart down the lane as the locals gawked at the first man to be permitted into Varzoun from the outside in some three years. Radonus kept his eyes forward and proceeded, showing no visible notice of the chatter his presence caused.
Chapter I
Because they were not at all accustomed to receiving visitors or newcomers of any kind, his arrival caused a considerable wave of chatter and speculation. While he quietly arranged to rent a space from a man called Tazvor, a small workshop with an apartment in the back, the tavern regulars debated his origins and his intentions.
“They say he’s a Blacklander,” snorted Fil, the hog farmer with a face like a bulldog. “What’s he doing all the way out here?”
“He in’t no Blacklander,” countered Laird, the river fisherman. “He’s not got the accent for it. Check the eyebrows. He must be from Southwise. He knows more than he’s letting on, too. I’d lay my money he’s an exiled prince.”
“Fah!” countered Cupek, the baker, “You wouldn’t know a prince if he came up and bit you on the elbow. To me he’s got the bearing of a crook what escaped. Shifty eyes, shuffling walk, that’s a man what’s hiding something big. Got sent up for thievery or jiggery-pokery, and slipped his shackles. A criminal mind to be sure. Now he roams around, selling what he’s pinched.”
A few curious individuals entered the shop to meet the man himself. They saw shelves lined with heavy, aged, foreign-looking books, trinkets, and treasures that he must have accumulated on his travels: coins, carvings, textiles, a jarred octopus. Every item seemed to have a fanciful story behind it, which revealed another strange piece of the puzzle of his life, one where he had traveled to every corner of the map.
“This is made from the skin of a leopard snake that attacked me in the mountains not far from here,” he explained of a robe that bore a spotted, reptilian texture. “It was in the Harrow Peaks, which they say none may traverse alone and survive, but I had no other option for the winter mudslides had already occurred. I had ventured out to the lookout ridge to try to get my bearings, and when I returned to camp I saw it had been ransacked. I noticed the snake’s slithering pattern in the snow. It was fortunate I had been out, for if it had taken me unawares, it would have swallowed me whole. I set a trap, and the next time it came to feed, a rock suspended from high above came down and crushed its skull. I was fortunate that it was but a juvenile, only fifteen yards in length with razor sharp fans that can sink through to a man’s heart. When the leopard snake reaches maturity, it grows a second head and may have survived my ambush. I survived the winter on its meat and busied myself working its skin. This is all that remains… a suit this fine goes for 800 coin in the Dukedom of Ellorux, but here I could let you have it for 300.”
He had a knack for shoeing horses, fixing carts, blowing glass, and other tasks so word quickly spread that if one had a job that needed doing, and could not afford a master tradesman, Radonus would do well: “Better a jack of all trades than a master of one,” he said confidently. Those who employed him found him fair to deal with, if slightly grandiloquent.
“A bag of wind if ever there was one,” guffawed Fil over drinks at the tavern.
“A right wheezing geezer,” agreed Laird.
“Blows a mighty good vase though,” Cupek allowed.
“That he do,” admitted Fil.
“The wife was so happy with hers she said she had to go back and watch him while he made another,” Laird said cheerfully, “Spent dern near the whole day and night at his shop. Best peace and quiet I’ve had in a dozen years of marriage.”
At this, Fil and Cupek merely shared a knowing, quizzical look.
One morning, Radonus was sweeping out his shop when he heard a knock at the door.
“Eh? Who’s there?”
“Miekas, sir,” said a small voice. Radonus turned to see a husky boy with a chubby, cherubic face, standing straight with rigid posture. The boy wore what appeared to be weathered hand-me-downs. “Are you Radonus the Stranger?”
“Stranger I am, to some,” Radonus said cryptically, “But not so strange as all that.” He chuckled quietly to himself as Miekas shuffled back and forth in place on his heels, the remark obviously meaning nothing to him. “Come in, come in then.”
“I was sent by Tazvor, sir,” the boy stammered nervously. “To collect payment.”
Radonus narrowed his eyes. “I’ve paid Tazvor,” he said, scratching his bristle-bearded chin. “I remember it well. We agreed like gentlemen. An eighth up front, and the rest in installments. Has he forgotten?”
“He… I think…” Miekas gulped, keeping a distance between himself and the stranger, “There was some concern that…”
“That he undercharged,” a wry grin crossed Radonus’ face as he assessed the situation. “Our man Tazvor has seen the kind of business I do and wants a bigger slice of the pie.”
“Forgive me sir, I am but a messenger.”
“You are absolved,” Radonus sighed, “But now I wonder: do I let him turn the screws, or do we butt heads like a pair of buffalo over a matter of a few coins?”
“I… I don’t know, sir,” the boy stammered.
“Ah, to see within yourself the power to renegotiate at will. To be so fairly unfair. I almost admire it,” Radonus sighed with a strange affection. He moved to the back of the room where he kept a large nondescript chest locked with a latch, from which he retrieved a wooden box. Opening the box, he retrieved a small sack of coins. “The fates have doomed me to wander unmoored, which is a fine way to experience the world but a terrible way to build up trust in people. Everybody in this world is a turtle, retreating into their shell when anything unknown stirs outside. I get it, I get it. Here’s another twenty,” he said, jingling the coins’ metal within. “I’m afraid that’s all I can afford at this time but it’s twice as much as I was expecting to pay so you will have to insist to your master that we are square.”
“Tazvor is… is not my master,” Miekas said, stumbling over his words. “I have no master. I just kind of… do whatever.”
An amused smile crossed Radonus’ lips. “We are alike in that.”
Instead of leaving, Miekas found himself gazing at the spines of the hardbound tomes on the shelf. “This is a lot of books,” he observed.
“I suppose this might constitute quite the library,” Radonus said passively as he resumed his sweeping, “To some.”
“Are they heavy?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Miekas selected a particularly thick book off the shelf and felt its heft. “Why would you bring them with you everywhere if they’re so heavy?”
Radonus froze in place and stared at his visitor, blinking twice. “I don’t really expect you to understand,” he began to say, “But what’s in those books is what makes my travels worthwhile.”
“Are they magic?”
“Come again?”
“The books,” Miekas idly flipped through the pages, without a glance as to what was printed on them. “Do they have magic?”
“Why don’t you read one and see for yourself?” Radonus took the book from the boy, flipped it to a page in the middle, and pointed at it. It appeared to be a directory of plants.
“I… I cannot,” Miekas said somberly.
“That, then,” Radonus said, shutting the book for the boy, “Would be where the magic starts.”
“Some say you come from the Black Lands,” Miekas said. “That’s a faraway place.”
“It is,” Radonus nodded, “Through the forest, over the mountains and, well, quite a journey beyond that. Further than most of Varzoun would dare to go, or have any reason to. But I wouldn’t really say that I am from there… only that I have been there.”
“Is sorcery common there?” Miekas asked. “Out there? Wherever you come from?”
Radonus leaned on his broom. “Well,” he said, fixing his eyes on the curious boy. “If sorcery were common, it would have no power, would it?”
The boy had no answers. He barely seemed to comprehend the statement. He simply gazed upon the stranger, slack-jawed.
“Is there anything else?”
“I…” Miekas started to say, “You’re the first outsider I’ve ever met. Sorry to be so intrusive.”
“That’s the only way to learn anything,” Radonus answered with an affectionate twinkle in his eye. “Intrusion is bold. Not always welcome, but… it has its rewards.”
“I… I see, sir,” Miekas nodded.
“I tell you what,” Radonus said, “You say you have no master. I can give you occupation.”
“An apprenticeship?” Miekas asked.
“Truthfully, it’s more like busywork,” Radonus said. “Apprentices are for master tradesmen and I, I must confess, am merely a tinkerer pursuing whatever interests me. But I do have designs, and those designs might, from time to time, require an extra set of hands.”
Radonus stood before Miekas and took his hands, examining them. “Hands belonging to someone willing to do what is asked, but not so prone to suspicion and overthought that he might raise too many objections.”
“Do you mean me, sir?”
“Undoubtedly,” Radonus said, his grin widening under his bushy beard. “The job is yours if you want it.”
“I can do whatever you need, sir!” Miekas said cheerfully.
“Perfection,” Radonus said with a twinkle in his eye. “Come back tomorrow and I will put you to work.” He extended his hand.
“Thank you, sir!” Miekas said cheerfully, gripping his new employer by the forearm in a show of agreement. He then turned and walked out of the room, while Radonus returned to his sweeping.
“Hm,” he said, pushing a coagulation of dust bunnies toward the open door, “I suppose I could have started him today.”
Radonus put the boy to work on menial tasks: sweeping, straightening, repairing the hole in the roof, doing his personal errands like shopping or visiting the seamstress. He dispatched the young man to catch rabbits in the woods just outside the wall – where Varzouni were permitted to hunt – which the stranger kept in cages in the back of the shop, away from visitors. Occasionally one would drop dead and Radonus would scrawl something into a book in what appeared to be a strange foreign script – although Miekas had to admit, he could not tell the difference between that and local writing. He would go to the fields and gather flowers, grasses, and wild herbs with no clear understanding of what his employer needed with them.
After a few weeks of fulfilling his duties with reasonable competence and no questions asked, Miekas’ curiosity at last got the better of him.
“If I may be so bold” Miekas approached his superior one evening while the older man was at his desk poring over a book. The boy was wringing his hands nervously, “What exactly is the meaning of all this work?”
Radonus tilted his head and sighed. “I thought someday you might ask,” he said, standing from his desk.
He went to the shelf and removed a small tin item: a figure in the shape of a duck. He then produced a small key, which he inserted into a hole in the duck’s side. He turned the key a few times and placed the duck figure on the floor of the shop, where it proceeded to hop a little ways, and produced a slight “quack” sound.
“Do you see?” Radonus asked.
Miekas scratched his head in non-comprehension. “We’re making toys?”
Radonus ran his hands down his beard. “Not exactly, no,” he drew out his words, his grin crooked with amusement and a mighty struggle to connect. He took a pair of pliers from his workbench and used them to open the duck, scattering the interior components on the floor. “This duck is the sum of its parts, the product of intricate design and planning. When I turn the key, these dozens of little gears kick into motion, one turning the other, until it produces the appearance of a walking duck, while another series of gears, packed into the same little figure, flicks against a reed to produce the quacking noise. Little parts that must be planned out, just so, to produce something you would never dream of by looking at the individual pieces. You see them on the floor now, and you could never guess what they amount to.”
“Oh,” said Miekas, feigning comprehension.
“I’ve always been fascinated,” Radonus said, placing the clockwork duck back on his shelf, “Who saw the duck and thought, I could make that… from tin and wood, with countless little pieces that turn inside and interact in minute, barely-comprehensible, yet coordinated and specific ways. What imagination, what vision, what design. An entire ecosystem of machinery inside this figure that relies on every other piece to be in working order, in order to produce the end result.”
“A duck,” Miekas nodded.
“So it appears.”
“So… we make gears?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Radonus chuckled. “What I have in mind for this world is something so awe-inspiring it could change everything about life as we know it, but if I were to pursue it directly, I would never have a prayer of it ever being permitted. I’m at work setting hundreds of tiny pieces in place, some of which I must build myself, in order to complete my life’s work.”
“Oh,” Miekas said again, acknowledging only that he could tell he had been given an adequate explanation, not that he understood it. Fortunately for Radonus, it was not only acceptable that Miekas not understand his rhetoric, it was perhaps preferable.
“By the way, Miekas,” Radonus said, “When I arrived at Varzoun, I saw the strangest thing: on the wall, there was a row of horrible dolls connected by string. What do you know about that?”
“Oh, everybody knows about that,” Miekas said. “The dolls keep the plague away.”
“Is that so?” Radonus raised a skeptical eyebrow, “How do they work?”
“Well, they’re meant as diversion,” Miekas said matter-of-factly, as if this were the most logical and natural thing in the world. “The plague arrives and infects the doll-children, and thus, there is no more plague to come in and hurt the real children.”
“I see,” Radonus nodded and stroked his beard, pretending to be convinced by this line of thinking. “So, the plague does not enter the city?”
“Well, it does get in sometimes,” Miekas admitted. “I have attended many funerals in my life. It was the plague that claimed my parents in my youth. But without the dolls it would surely be more.”
“Tragic,” Radonus said with a solemn nod, “What this city needs is a better wall, but from what I know of Varzoun, they’re a proud people. If we want to build them one, they have to not know it’s being built.”
“Like… at night?” Miekas asked.
Radonus laughed aloud and put his hand on the shoulder of his young assistant. “Yes, exactly, lad.”